Who Sent Clement?

by Keith A Pearson

  “I’ll start at the top and you start at the bottom,” Clement suggests. “We’ll switch around half way so neither of us ends up with a buggered back.”

  I inwardly groan and squat down, screwdriver in hand.

  “Here we go. Page one,” Clement says.

  “Yep. Page one.”

  We get to work.

  There are some domestic chores I loathe. Ironing is probably the worst. But after five minutes of jabbing a screwdriver into brickwork, I’d happily swap my ironing nemesis, a basket of cotton blouses, for this task. It’s back-breaking, tedious work, not helped by the fact I keep hearing scratching noises.

  “You think there are rats in here, Clement?”

  “Probably.”

  “Great. Thanks for putting my mind at rest.”

  We reach the half way point and switch positions, Clement squatting down while I get to stand. It’s scant consolation but at least I’ll be a few feet further away from any rats.

  We reach the end of our respective lines and switch over again. I start one line up from the bottom, and Clement one line down from the highest position he theorised Harry would have stashed the gold.

  Mindlessly, we push on. Jab, jab, shuffle. Jab, jab, shuffle. Over and over again; every completed line ramming another nail into my coffin of dwindling hopes.

  Inevitably, I can’t resist the temptation to check my watch — fifty five minutes. We reach the end of another line and I suggest we stop for a breather.

  “Yeah, good call. I could do with a cuppa.”

  I could do with a bottle of gin and an intravenous drip.

  Clement retrieves the flask from the rucksack and unscrews the two plastic mugs from the top.

  “Did you put sugar in this?”

  “Sorry. I forgot.”

  I didn’t forget. I just chose not to make it undrinkable.

  “Suppose it’ll have to do,” he grumbles as he pours out the tea.

  Clement hands me a mug and we face the wall we’ve become intimately familiar with.

  “What do you reckon, doll. Just over half way?”

  “I think so.”

  I’m tempted to ask what our plan is if, or more likely, when we don’t find anything. I don’t though, as I can’t stomach having my motivation brought into question again. Besides, one of us has to stay optimistic.

  We drink our tepid tea as the umpteenth train passes by. The noise and the dust are preferable to the small talk I suspect neither of us are in the mood for.

  Clement is the first to finish and screws his mug back on the flask.

  “Tea break over.”

  I’m not enjoying it anyway and pour the remaining tea on the floor.

  We return to the wall and resume our positions, Clement’s turn to squat. I get back in my rhythm, jabbing away at about three feet of brickwork before I shuffle a step to my right. While it’s easier on the legs to stand, it takes its toll on the shoulders and I have to continually switch hands.

  We complete another two rows and switch position, my turn to stand again. Limbs begin to ache and joints groan in complaint. My nails are scuffed to hell, and I dread to think what the damp has done to my hair.

  We reach the halfway point and I prepare to resume the squatting position but Clement stops. He continues to jab away at the same spot.

  “Got something, doll.”

  He doesn’t clarify what the something is, but it’s enough to make my heart skip a beat.

  “What? What it is it?”

  “Dunno, but the mortar is shot around this brick.”

  I squat down and inspect Clement’s find.

  The brick in question is nine rows up from the bottom and his screwdriver is buried in the mortar, up to the handle.

  “There’s still a load of crud in there,” he grunts.

  He continues to lever the screwdriver back and forth, moving steadily along the top of the brick.

  “You wanna try and clear that end?” he suggests, nodding to the right hand edge of the brick.

  I comply and jab my screwdriver into the gap between the two bricks. It sinks straight in with little resistance.

  “Oh, my God, Clement,” I coo breathlessly. “This could be it.”

  I continue to jab away enthusiastically. Most of my jabs sink into nothing, but every fourth or fifth jab meets resistance. However, a little forceful wiggling of the screwdriver quickly clears each blockage. I guess the gap around the brick has been filled with dust; blasted at the wall over the decades by millions of passing tube trains. Add a little moisture from the damp bricks and you’ve got a natural cement.

  “How you getting on there, doll?”

  “Nearly clear this end.”

  I look across and Clement is working on the gap below the brick.

  Just four inches to clear and I can scarcely catch my breath.

  Is this outlandish folly about to bear the most impossible of fruits?

  Don’t let us down, Harry. Not after we’ve come this far.

  31

  I was thirteen years of age when the National Lottery launched in the UK, and I can vividly remember the public fervour surrounding the first draw. Accordingly, most of the adult population, including my own mother, dashed to the shops to purchase what they believed would be the winning ticket.

  I also remember watching the first draw, live on TV. I don’t recall much about the programme itself, but I can still picture my mother’s face as the balls popped from the lottery machine, and not one of them matched any of her numbers.

  All that anticipation, the hope, the unwavering belief she would be a winner. In the end, I think she just felt cheated.

  In hindsight, I can look back and see it for what it was — clever marketing to mask impossible odds. Everyone who purchased a ticket was convinced they’d win. Many, many millions were probably left with the same feeling as my mother.

  But they came back for more, and still do.

  While I’ve never purchased a lottery ticket, I can imagine how it must feel as you watch those balls roll from the machine. One ball matches, then two, then three. By the time the fourth ball matches, the tension must be almost unbearable.

  As I squat in the dark, I think my fifth ball has just been matched.

  “Nearly there, doll.”

  Clement jiggles the screwdriver and the final blockage gives way, the brick dropping a fraction.

  “Gotta be honest with you,” he adds. “I’m a bit nervous about this.”

  For me, nervous doesn’t even come close to covering it.

  I have to remind myself of the reason I’m actually here, and that Karl’s debt is still due for repayment in four days. But wouldn’t it be the sweetest irony if, while trying to fund that debt, I received a bonus large enough to unshackle myself from another long-term relationship — the one with my mortgage company.

  Ball six is tantalisingly close.

  Clement grips the brick in his fingertips and gives it a tug. It slips forward, maybe half an inch, but then appears to stick.

  “I think it’s caught on your side, doll. Jam the screwdriver in there and lever it a bit while I pull.”

  The rumble of yet another tube train fills the pin-dropping silence but I’m so focused on the brick I scarcely notice it.

  I force the screwdriver into the gap and apply horizontal force as Clement regains his grip on the brick.

  “Easy, doll,” he murmurs.

  I ease off a little, and the brick edges forward in juddering movements as Clement rocks it left and right.

  Fraction by fraction, more of the brick is exposed.

  “It’s coming. Pull the screwdriver out.”

  With almost half the brick now jutting out of the wall, Clement continues to rock it left and right; his big fingers encouraging tiny movements.

  “Nearly there,” he whispers, as if the full volume of his voice might scare the brick back into its hole.

  Another half inch, and then he stops.

  “I think it�
�s ready. One tug and she should pop out.”

  “Really?” I wheeze.

  “Christ, I can barely force myself to look. This is it, doll.”

  I offer him an encouraging smile. “Do it.”

  With enough of the brick now exposed, Clement is able to secure a firm grip. With both ends pincered in his hands, he repositions his feet, just in case it pops out with no further resistance and he’s sent sprawling backwards.

  “Here goes.”

  He pulls the brick, and it cleanly departs the home it has occupied for over a century. He then unceremoniously lobs it over his shoulder.

  It’s too dark to see more than a couple of inches into the gaping hole left behind.

  “Got your torch, doll?”

  I pull my phone from my jacket pocket and activate the torch.

  “Do you want to do the honours?” I ask, offering Clement the phone. “The only reason we’re here is because of you.”

  “Nah. You put the graft in, you get the reward.”

  We both turn to the wall and I move the torch beam towards the void, slow enough to savour the moment.

  All these years, hidden away, and we are seconds from unearthing Harry’s hidden gold.

  The beam hits the void.

  Half-a-dozen tiny lights glint back at us.

  I’m not sure how long it usually takes for the brain to send a message, but I’m certain it’s quicker than my current reaction time.

  I suspect it’s because my brain is busy piecing together the images being sent by my eyes. The six glinting lights are now three pairs of tiny black eyes, above twitching snouts with wiry whiskers.

  “Fuck!” Clement barks as he crabs backwards. “Rats!”

  My ears eventually join the party and relay Clement’s statement. Everything comes together and realisation slaps me around the face.

  “Oh my God! Oh my God!”

  My brain sends the message it should have sent five seconds ago. I lurch from my squatting position while simultaneously stumbling backwards, arms flailing. Momentum continues to drag me backwards until I trip over my own feet.

  Weightlessness arrives, and with it, acceptance that I’m about to pay a jarring visit to the filthy concrete floor.

  As I await the impending impact, two huge hands reach out and grab me around the waist, arresting my fall.

  “Easy, doll.”

  We find ourselves in a position akin to a scene from Dirty Dancing — or at least a poorly choreographed re-make. I’m leant backwards with Clement supporting my weight. My left foot is planted on the floor at an uncomfortable angle, and my right leg thrust outward.

  It would be fair to say I am not having the time of my life.

  Clement lifts me into a standing position as I lower my right leg. I turn around and stare sheepishly at the floor.

  “Umm…thank you.”

  “No sweat. I’m not so keen on rats either,” he replies. “Filthy little shits.”

  We take a second to regain our composure, and for the awkwardness to ease a little.

  “Sorry to say, doll, I don’t think Harry chiselled that brick out. I reckon the rats ate their way through the mortar.”

  “They can do that?”

  “They can eat their way through almost anything. There’s probably a nest behind the wall and they’ve chewed through to get at the crap blown in here from the tracks.”

  “Great,” I sigh. “Back to the drawing board then.”

  “Afraid so.”

  Clement picks up the discarded brick and pushes it in the void; the one remaining rat scurrying away into the darkness. With the heel of his boot, he hammers it back into place until it’s flush with the surrounding bricks.

  He turns to face me. “Shall we crack on?”

  There’s only about five lines of mortar left to check but I’m not sure I can face it. As horrid as it was, the unearthing of a rat’s nest is not the reason for my reluctance. No, the overpowering sense of disappointment is why I can’t bring myself to move.

  Six lottery balls. Six matching numbers. I’ve lost the ticket.

  “I can’t do it,” I croak.

  I try so hard but my resilience has been beaten into submission. So many knocks so much disappointment.

  I bite my bottom lip and squeeze my eyes tightly shut. A convulsion builds in my chest. I swallow hard, trying to force it back.

  It’s not enough.

  A fat tear escapes my left eye and meanders its way down my cheek. Another follows, and before I can stop myself, I’m in the midst of a full-scale sobbing episode.

  Clement shuffles over and I turn away. I hate myself for showing weakness, for fulfilling the stereotype.

  “Doll? You alright?” he asks, his voice not much more than a whisper, almost gentle.

  “I’m sorry,” I sniffle. “Just ignore me. I’ll be okay in a minute.”

  I wipe my eyes on the inside of my jacket while pulling shallow breaths.

  A hand moves through the gloomy light and rests on my shoulder.

  “Nothing to apologise for.”

  “Don’t be nice to me, please. I’ll start blubbing again.”

  “You sure you’re alright?”

  “Not really.”

  Another convulsion builds. I don’t know where this is all coming from, and I wish I could stop it.

  I can’t, and another wave of sobbing begins.

  “Come here,” he orders.

  The hand on my shoulder steers me towards him. I don’t resist and suddenly his arms are wrapped around my shoulders. I lean my head against his chest and cry myself dry.

  Clement, to his credit, doesn’t offer any pointless platitudes or hollow sentiments. He doesn’t have to; his bear-like embrace is comfort enough. I can feel his heart beating through the lambswool sweater, like a metronome ticking slowly back and forth.

  A minute passes and my breathing slows, almost matching the rise and fall of Clement’s broad chest.

  He remains silent, and that’s fine by me. I’m content where I am, probably because I can’t face the embarrassing post-mortem of my breakdown.

  Inevitably, that choice is taken out of my hands.

  “How you doing down there, doll?”

  Clement unwraps his arms. I shuffle backwards and look up at him.

  “I’m okay.”

  “Sure?”

  “Yep, and sorry about that. I don’t know what came over me.”

  “You’ve had a lot of shit to deal with.”

  “I know, but still, I shouldn’t have let things get on top of me like that.”

  “Don’t beat yourself up about it. We all have a breaking point, me included.”

  I find a weak smile. “I can’t imagine much gets to you. When was the last time you broke down in tears?”

  “The FA Cup final in 1952. Newcastle scored six minutes before time and we lost one-nil.”

  “You know something, Clement? For once, I can quite believe that.”

  He plucks the Marlboro packet from his pocket and flips it open.

  “I’m gonna have a smoke and then I’ll finish checking the wall. You go and sit on the stairs until I’m done.”

  “I can’t ask you to do that.”

  “You’re not asking. I’m telling.”

  He slides a cigarette from the packet and lifts it to his mouth, flicking the Zippo open with his other hand.

  “Can I have one?” I ask.

  He lights the cigarette and plucks it from his lips. “Really? Never took you as a smoker.”

  “I was, a long time ago. The hankering for a cigarette never goes away though, especially when I’m stressed.”

  “Help yourself,” he says, offering me the packet.

  I extract a cigarette and place it between my lips. Clement hands me the Zippo.

  I press down on the wheel and sparks fly towards the wick, a yellow flame emerging. I lift it to the tip of the cigarette and drag hard.

  The rush of nicotine is sublime.

  I
slowly exhale and flick the Zippo shut, holding it to the light to examine the decoration etched into the metal.

  “Nice lighter.”

  “Thanks.”

  I examine it a little closer, and notice the words engraved on the front. The metal is well worn, the text faint, but just about legible. I mindlessly read the words out loud.

  “For the dark times — Annie.”

  I pass the Zippo back to Clement.

  “Who’s Annie?”

  “The friend that was.”

  “Oh, the same friend you played Misty with?”

  “Yeah,” he replies, his tone dismissive. “Anyway, I should get on.”

  Before I can question him about the words on the Zippo, he tucks it back in his pocket and makes his way over to the wall. I stand and smoke my cigarette while watching Clement as he silently jabs away at the brickwork.

  The injection of nicotine, while initially welcome, has left me feeling light headed. It’s been a long time since I finished a cigarette, and my body appears unable to process the flood of chemicals as efficiently as it once did.

  I really should be helping Clement, but perhaps a few minutes sitting on the stairs might be sensible, at least until the wooziness passes.

  I gingerly shuffle across the floor, the light fading as I move further away from the lamp. As my legs turn to jelly, I begin to question whether the cigarette was really such a good idea. I stop for a second and shake my head in an attempt to clear the giddiness.

  A deep breath and I continue towards the stairs.

  I make another five or six steps.

  As I swing my left foot to the floor, it connects with a piece of debris, immediately arresting the forward motion. Every other part of me continues forward and I stumble into the darkness.

  I remain on my feet for one final step before sprawling head first across the filthy concrete floor.

  This week has been the gift that just keeps on giving.

  As I lie on my stomach amongst the dust and the debris, I hear the clomp of Clement’s boots approaching.

  “Shit, doll. You hurt?”

  My pride is on life support, but I don’t think I’ve suffered any major physical damage.

  “No, I think I’m okay,” I grunt, slowly moving onto all fours.